


How Do You Solve A Problem Like Sherlock?

by astudyinfic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:32:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinfic/pseuds/astudyinfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One was insufferable.  One was depressed.  But strangely enough, they were perfect for each other.  He just needed to get them to realize it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Do You Solve A Problem Like Sherlock?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naturegirlrocks](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=naturegirlrocks).



> A JohnlockChallenges gift for NatureGirlRocks, whose prompt was Matchmaker!Lestrade.

Sherlock Holmes is an enigma.  There is no good and proper way to describe him.  He thinks himself a sociopath, but those who know him best understand that is not completely true.  He has emotions, he feels things.  He may keep them buried under layers of masks and bravado, but they are there just the same.  And at his very core he is lonely.  He often says that genius needs an audience, but what genius needs is a friend.  Someone who understands his inner works and appreciates him for who he is, and not what he can do. 

The first time they met was a complete accident.  Weekly pub night with the rugby team was a bit of a tradition, and Greg looked forward to a night of normalcy after a week of dealing with the ongoing drama of Anderson and Donovan.  A new man had joined the group recently, a bloke named John who played on the team prior to deploying to Afghanistan but had been evac’d home after being shot in the line of duty.  Greg thought he seemed nice enough, but sad.  They talked about rugby, football, women (and men, in John’s case) and current events.  Teammates spoke of him highly, but noted that he changed since his return, subdued, lacking a fire they had once admired.  Occasional glimpses of the man they remembered could be seen, but most often he seemed lonely, even in a crowd of his friends.

One night found them sitting at the bar discussing the latest Arsenal versus West Ham United match when a familiar figure entered the pub.  “Lestrade,” Sherlock bellowed, making his way towards the two with not even a casual glance at the other patrons.  As Greg turned to look at him, he heard a gasp from John as well as a slight rustle of fabric as he straightened himself to his full height. 

“Sherlock,” the DI sighed, praying he didn’t notice the man next to him who probably wouldn’t appreciate a Holmesian-style deduction of his life.  “I’m off duty, so kindly piss off.”

Ignoring Greg’s tone as always he launched into a rapid fire speech, “You can’t keep me off this case.  Your team of imbeciles cannot solve it without me.  I am certain Anderson has told you to look at the wife, but I can tell you just from the quick scan of the paperwork that I did in your office that she is completely innocent.  The housekeeper is the one you should be looking at.  The pattern of dust on the mantle tells me that much without even looking at the other evidence that idiot managed to miss.  I’m sure it was pure chance that he even photographed the dust, going for something inconsequential like the scuff mark on the fireplace which was from one of his more exuberant sessions with his mistress.”

Before Lestrade could even open his mouth to tell him off for being in his office without permission again, John exclaimed, “Amazing!  You know all of that from a few photographs of dust and scuff marks?”

Sherlock’s eye turned toward John.  “Of course.  I observe where others merely see.  For instance, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” John spluttered as Sherlock launched into one of his bloody long explanations and Greg started coming up with things say to the man once Sherlock was sent on his way.  But Greg realized he couldn’t have predicted what happened next, because instead of indignant yelling, slapping, or stomping, John looked up at Sherlock with an expression of pure awe and said, “Brilliant.  Spot on, actually.”

For his part, Sherlock was briefly shocked into silence.  Several emotions flickered over his face including, surprisingly, lust.  Greg looked on, dumbfounded, not realizing Sherlock was capable of looking at another person in that way.  An idea started to percolate in his mind and he grinned as Sherlock went to take his leave.

“John Watson,” John introduced, hand going out to shake Sherlock’s.  When their palms met, both men jumped slightly, and then looked at each other with wide eyes. 

“The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.”  With a swish of his coat he was gone.  John looked after him longingly before turning to Greg with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“Yes, he is always like that,” the DI replied, though it was not entirely true.  He had never seen Sherlock react to a person in that way before.

John excused himself not long after.  The conversation had slowed as he spent most of his time staring at his hand and smiling.

“Oh yes,” Greg thought.  “This could work.”

~-~

A couple of weeks passed before the plan could be put into action.  Greg knew he needed to get John and Sherlock in the same room again.  The look on John’s face each pub night following, head turning to door-- hopeful and excited when it opened, disappointed and resigned when it wasn’t Sherlock-- was as heartbreaking as it was telling.  When a conversation actually got going, John asked numerous questions about Sherlock and his work. 

When Sherlock introduced himself to John he gave his address, which struck Greg as unusual.  The next week Greg asked John if he stopped by to see the man.  His response, “Why would he want to see a broken down soldier like me?” only strengthened Greg’s resolve.

Sherlock was harder to read, and while Greg thought he had shown interest at the pub that night, he remained unsure.  For his part, Sherlock tried to appear disinterested.  He asked once about John, how Lestrade knew him and what he did, but considering this was Sherlock Holmes, a man who could have deduced the answers if he tried, the DI took it as a sign that the interest was indeed mutual.

HIs opportunity arose when his wife once again worked late, leaving him on his own for dinner.  John responded eagerly to a text asking him to meet for dinner at a local Chinese restaurant.  If he noticed the location, only 2 blocks from 221B Baker Street, he did not mention it.  Greg arrived before him, requesting a table for three, and hoping that his conclusions were indeed correct. 

As John arrived, Greg sent off a text and a prayer.

_Sherlock, your assistance is needed at Emerald Palace, ASAP. –GL_

Several minutes passed before the phone pinged.

_Order the dumplings. –SH_

_Haha.  Very funny.  I need you to here, right now.  It involves John Watson.  –GL_

This time the response is almost immediate.  Greg smile, knowing his assumptions were correct.

_Is he alright?  Has something happened to him? –SH_

_Come here and find out.  –GL_

_Be there in 5 minutes.  –SH_

The two men were just ordering when Sherlock burst through the door with his usual sense of drama.  John’s eyes widened taking him in, a slight colour rising to his cheeks.   Sherlock, upon spotting them in the back of the restaurant, stalked back to the table, never taking his eyes from the doctor.    “John,” he sighed, breathless from more than just the couple blocks of running. 

Lestrade did not have to speak for the rest of the meal, content to sit back and watch the other two men interact with each other.  Never before would he have thought there was one person in the world who would perfectly compliment Sherlock Holmes, but with the evidence in front of him, he could no longer deny the electricity that was building between them.  Sherlock deduced everyone in the little restaurant, explained how you could tell this was a good Chinese food establishment based on the lower third of the door handle, and spoke endlessly about his work.  John sat, mesmerized, interrupting only with the occasional outburst of “Brilliant!” or “Amazing!”

Before long, Greg took his leave thinking that they would want to be alone, but surprisingly, John made to leave at the same time.  “I have had an amazing evening, but I have to work early in the morning, and it is a long way back to my flat.  Sherlock, it was a pleasure,” he smiled shyly, as he reached to shake the man’s hand again.  Once more, as they shook hands it appeared as if their entire worlds shrunk to contain only them and the place where their skin was in contact.  The desire was there, but obviously these two needed a bit more of a push.

Sherlock stood silently, watching John climb into a cab.  As Greg started to walk away, Sherlock called out, sounding resigned,  “I know what you are trying to do, Lestrade.  He doesn’t want me so just leave it alone,” before turning to leave as well.

Greg shook his head.  For such an observant man, Sherlock really was quite dim sometimes.

~-~

The next morning, Greg placed two calls.  The first was to Molly Hooper, whom he had worked with on numerous occasions  and was always willing to do a favour when Sherlock was concerned.  The second was to John’s supervisor and friend Mike Stamford.  John spoke of him often and thought highly of his skill as a physician and a teacher.  When Greg explained the situation, Mike was happy to help out.

John grumbled to himself as he pushed the morgue doors open with his backside.  He knew that being a surgeon again was out because of his tremor and limp, but to be downgraded from field medic in Afghanistan to glorified office boy in London was just humiliating.  “At least down here, only the dead are around to hear the sound of my fall from grace,” he mumbled, making his way to the far end of the room where the file cabinets were housed. 

Turning the corner, his eyes widened as the files dropped from his hands.  There, in the middle of the morgue, was Sherlock Holmes of all people, whipping a dead body with a riding crop.  His suit jacket flew out behind him with every slap that landed on the corpse, and while John had to admit it was all a bit strange, he could not help but be a bit aroused as well.

The sound of the files hitting the floor caused Sherlock to spin around, crop still in hand.  “John!” he gasped, dropping the crop on the table and striding over to the doctor.  “What…?” he started, before shaking his head.  “Why…?”  Looking deep into John’s eyes, his own widened and he grabbed John’s hand, placing to fingers on the pulse point of his wrist, never breaking the eye contact. 

After a few moments, a smile slowly spread across his face, and he leaned in, giving John time to pull away if necessary.  Instead, John closed the distance, gripping Sherlock’s shoulders, pressing their lips together.  This was no sweet, chaste first kiss, it was all lips, teeth and tongue, passion and fire.  John’s hands slid under Sherlock’s suit jacket, pushing it from his shoulders to the ground.  John’s coat hit the floor not long after, as Sherlock turned him, pushing him back until he was leaning against one of the autopsy tables.

Without thought, John swung his legs up onto the table, pulling Sherlock down on top of him.  Hands were flying everywhere, opening buttons, unzipping flies.  “I’ve wanted to do this since the moment you walked into the pub,” John growled against his lips.  “You are so bloody gorgeous, and you have the mind to match.”

Preening at John’s words, even in the throes of passion, Sherlock pulled the jumper off him before John latched onto his neck, nipping and sucking dark purple marks, while Sherlock moaned.  “The second those first words left your mouth, I was lost.  You liked me for me, not for what I could do for you.  You didn’t want anything.  You didn’t call me names or hit me or walk off.  You thought I was brilliant, and I could see it in your eyes.  I could see everything I never knew I wanted.” 

Sherlock’s shirt was soon lost, buttons clattering across the tiled floor, but neither man heard anything, including a startled yelp from the office doors.   John pulled Sherlock’s cock from his pants, pushing them down just far enough to get access, before doing the same with his own, both of them gasping into each other’s mouths as John stroked them.  As John and Sherlock explored each other’s bodies, across town Lestrade’s mobile pinged with a new text message.

_There are two half naked men in my morgue right now. -Molly_

_Isn’t that normal? –GL_

_These two are alive. And on the same table.  And one of them is Sherlock. -Molly_  

Greg smiled, certain Sherlock was going to be a lot easier to deal with from now on. 

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my Beta oldamongdreams, and my own personal muse karioutme.


End file.
